Every morning around nine o’clock, I finish my breakfast smoothie and call the girls to join me in the living room. “Time to start our day,” I say, although really the day’s been chugging along for hours already—I’m up around six, joined early by sleepy boys; at 7:45 I walk Wonderboy around the corner to school, and then Scott and I take a long morning walk; around 8:30 Scott whips up the smoothies and I sit down to sip mine while catching up on blogs. “Start our day” means, during high tide, “start the high-tidish part of the day with some Spanish or something.”
So just now, as always, I announce it’s time to start our day. As I say this, I’m carrying some dishtowels through the house to the laundry pile. I pass through Jane’s room (there’s a hallway right through it): she looks at me quizzically over the top of her laptop; she’s in the middle of a PSAT practice test online.
I poke my head into the room shared by the other three girls, ready to nudge Rose. She’s perched at the table beside Rilla, making a doll. Handstitching two felt doll forms from a kit I’ve had on the shelf for, I dunno, four or five years? Rilla, all smiles, watching her progress, thinking up names. (She’s leaning toward Susie K.)
In the living room, Beanie is deep in the final Harry Potter book: her first time reading it. We take series-finishing very seriously around here: no way I’m interrupting that business.
Huck is playing a Sesame Street game on the patio-room computer.
Scott’s hard at work on something superheroish in his office, aka the boys’ bedroom.
Um, yeah, I guess this day is already well underway.
Giving New Meaning to the Phrase “Dad Needs to Stop Bringing His Work Home with Him”
day seventeen: tired